


Always the Rule, Never the Exception

by daretogobeyondtheunknown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daretogobeyondtheunknown/pseuds/daretogobeyondtheunknown
Summary: She was a Lodge, the world was meant to be her oyster. And yet, as Veronica held the singleNarcissus poeticustightly, she knew it was a lie. Because in her deepest love, Veronica was no exception, and Elizabeth Cooper would never see her as anything more than a friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> floriography (noun)   
>        the cryptological communication through the use or arrangements of flowers

Dressed in her Sunday best, Veronica always remembered the smell of fresh cut flowers. She never saw where they came from but they were always beautiful. As her mother would say, they ‘ _were a perfect addition to the décor.’_

It wasn’t until Veronica was seven and too ill to dress in her Sunday best when she finally met him. The man who brought the flowers. He was an older fellow, gray haired and with the kindest smile Veronica had ever seen.

When her mother and father returned home that afternoon, Veronica demanded they let him stay. Mr. Lee spoke with the oddest of lisps but he was funny and kind and the way he spoke of flowers captivated Veronica’s attention in a way nothing ever had.

Her father refused to let him stay but when Mr. Lee began arriving at the Lodge Manor Sunday afternoons and stayed for hours, Veronica knew she had won. In her Sunday best, she dutifully followed Mr. Lee about the Lodge Manor listening to the old man with the earnest of smiles and softest of giggles.

* * * 

Mr. Lee died just before Veronica’s fifteenth birthday.

For his funeral she had one hundred and sixty-eight white chrysanthemum flowers flown in. Her father had called it wasteful. Her mother seemed uncertain.

But as Veronica sat at the foot of Mr. Lee’s open grave, she thought little of the opinions of her parents. Mr. Lee had taught Veronica that roses didn’t always mean love and that even the simplest beauty of a single flower held the richest of undertones. He had welcomed her into a world and taught her a language few seemed to understand.

Veronica swore she would never forget.

But time taught Veronica it was easy to forget, falling out of habit with ill practiced ease. New York felt like pain. Her mother reminded her of loss. Riverdale was supposed to be fresh – a chance to begin again.

 _Narcissus poeticus_.

And then entered Betty Cooper.

* * * 

Betty Cooper made Veronica uncertain.

Betty Cooper was all anguish woven into the fabrics of a yearning Veronica thought she could never understand. It was beauty and affliction fused in a single breath.

Orientation had done nothing but add to the uncertainty. Betty Cooper made her pulse race and her mouth grow dry. Like the sands of time, the facts of Riverdale High slipped away, lost in the graceful movement of pale lips and nervous gestures.

It reminded Veronica of white _Syringa vulgaris_ in the southern stretches of France during early summer.

When Cheryl Blossom stared down her nose at the cleanly executed routine, uncertainty bubbled into certainty and with confidence, Veronica asked for trust. Trust she had in no way earned. But Betty was far too kind; closed tongued and unwilling to retaliate.

Instinctually, Veronica stepped forward in her stead.

Betty Cooper would never deserve the blood that dripped down her calloused palms and though Veronica felt the uncertainty returning, she knew she would do everything in her power to ensure Betty Cooper continued to smile. She was everything Veronica imagined Mr. Lee might have hoped for her to one day become.

But Veronica was ice and Betty was _Lilium longiflorum; Gypsophila paniculata; Nelumbo nucifera_.

* * * 

“The yellow is for friendship.”

Veronica had never meant to utter a sound but the fluttering in her chest and the unease trembling in her legs poured out and like the most violent of waterfalls, the words tumbled past her lips. If Veronica thought she could have stopped them she would have, stemming the flow of words like a kitchen faucet to water.

“I also had Magnolia cupcakes flown in from New York - because as my mom likes to say there’s no wrong the right cupcake can’t fix.”

With each flower – carefully chosen for colour, count and placement – Mr. Lee had taught her patience, thoughtfulness, and the art of observation. But as she clutched the white box of Magnolia cupcakes the lessons Veronica had spent years perfecting crumbled faster than her anonymity in Riverdale.  

* * *

It took Betty thirty-nine hours and twenty-eight or so minutes to forgive her.

Seated on the stone bench in the Riverdale cemetery, unable to sit before the grave of Mr. Lee, Veronica made a vow. She had asked Betty for trust only to thoughtlessly toss it aside. Mr. Lee had taught her to be better than that. It had been careless, insensitive and not the young woman Veronica desired to be.

Betty deserved better.

Later, over Chock’lit Shoppe milkshakes, Veronica made a second vow. To never allow any boy - to allow  _anything_  -  to stand between her and this warm smile and kind hearted small town girl.  

Because as Betty smiled, Veronica mapping each characteristic right down to the beauty spot on the left side of her jaw, it drew her in like Earth to the gravitational pull of the Sun. 

For a moment, Veronica closed her eyes. 

Perhaps, if she kept them shut tight enough, for long enough, the laughter would play on forever and the smile would simply never dissipate. Nothing Veronica had ever loved truly lasted and so perhaps, if this wasn’t love, it would last forever.

Because Betty made her feel like _Convallaria majalis_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floral Index: 
> 
> One hundred and sixty-eight white chrysanthemums:  
>      168 is considered a lucky combination to some; the numeric sounds similar to prosperity down the road. White chrysanthemums are a symbol of loyalty and devoted love.
> 
>  _Narcissuc poeticus_ (poet’s daffodil):   
>      Symbolic of rebirth and new beginnings
> 
>  _Syringa vulgaris_ (lilac):  
>        White lilacs represent the purity and innocent thought to be part of childhood.
> 
>  _Lilium longiflorum_  (Easter lily):  
>       It is symbolic of purity, virtue, innocence, hope and life. Tradition believes that these beautiful white lilies sprung up where drops of Christ sweat fell to the ground in His final hours of sorrow and deep distress. 
> 
>  _Gypsophila paniculata_ (Baby’s breath):  
>      Pureness and freedom from outside influences or corruption. 
> 
>  _Nelumbo nucifera_ (sacred lotus):  
>      Grown out from the mud, pure and unstained, the flower represents purity, patience, love and compassion for all, and rising out of suffering. It is significant to the Buddhist faith. 
> 
>  _Convallaria majalis_  (Lily of the Valley):  
>      Signifies the return of happiness. 


	2. Chapter 2

It had been years since Veronica had attended Sunday service. But being new to Riverdale and in a forced attempt to “make friends”, Veronica had been dragged along.

The pews felt too close and the steeple too decrepit.

“Honey, this is Fred Andrews. He was kind enough to let me do some accounting for his company while things settle with your… you know who.”

Eyes rolling, Veronica wondered who her mother thought she was fooling. Surely half the populace of Riverdale knew about her father. Gossip spread in Riverdale like a viral outbreak and Veronica doubted Fred Andrews was immune.

It still made her anxious, thoughts of unidentified voices whispering ill words on high assumptions and Veronica quickly turned her thoughts to the scent of fresh cut flowers and the feeling of the summer sun on her face.

As a child, Veronica had struggled to focus her thoughts, apt to run rampant leaving her with little done, much to the chagrin of her private tutor. Lost in the summer sun, Mr. Lee tending to the courtyard jardinières, Veronica heeded his voice like  _Menyanthes trifoliata_. It brought focus to the murky patterns that tainted the rising sun, brushing across the sky in the broadest of strokes.  

“Hello Mr. Andrews, my mother speaks highly of you.”

It was not a lie yet it still felt rancid as it slipped past her lips.

“Please, just Fred. And all good I hope.”

And so went the idle chatter. Sunday service had always been that. More often than not, Veronica had sat in the pews silently questioning if this was what faith meant because it felt more like appearances and blatant lies.

“Veronica! I didn’t know you went to this church. I mean- go- as in now. You know?”

Turning towards her saviour, Veronica smiled. Betty Coopers wore her Sunday best well. Archie Andrews, hair oil slicked back, looked as Veronica imagined a twelve-year-old boy would, dressed and fussed over by a frantic mother.

“My mother’s idea.”

But as the hymns reverberated off the peeling white paint and Betty Cooper sang whole heartedly by her side, Veronica dared to think it might not be half bad.

The sorrowful state of flowers – or lack there of - however would need to change.

* * *

“Gosh, Miss Lodge, it is beautiful.”

It was Sunday and like every Sunday since her first attendance at the Riverdale church, Veronica had insisted on selecting the floral arrangements for the service.

“They speak of humility; a return to happiness.”

It wasn’t that Veronica liked Sunday service or even wanted to share her secret with all the Sunday service goers – the entire reason why Veronica always arrived at the most ungodly of hours, made the arrangements, then left only to return with her mother some time later. Nor was it the proud gleam in her mother’s eyes as she took in the latest creations or the wonder in Betty Cooper’s eyes and the awe in her posture.

“It’s beautiful.”

Veronica merely loved flowers and the exquisite language they spoke.

* * *

If Betty Cooper loved flowers, it had no influence on the weekly bouquet that began arriving Monday afternoons. Noon sharp to the office of Riverdale High, always addressed to Elizabeth C. in the most elegant of script and always signed with the flowers genus and species, its origin and meaning.

Veronica loved flowers and the emotions they invoked. It was merely the art of sharing with another. At least, those were the words Veronica uttered to herself each week as she primed the final touches.

* * *

“Veronica, honey, we’ve talked about this. You can’t keep doing this. Things are different now.”

Seated at the kitchen island, Veronica paused. In a half circle about her, dozens of fresh flowers and greens awaited arrangement.

For as long as Veronica could remember money had never been a question – a blip in the radar of importance. What she had wanted, Veronica always had.

The move from New York to Riverdale had signified several things.

It was a separation from her father and the rumours circulating about his name. Perhaps, Riverdale had not been the finest of selections, a town cleaved out of her father’s success, but it was a choice nonetheless.

Next, it was a separation from the wealth of the Lodge name, a fact her mother was apt to point out often. The filings for the divorce were long and drawn out and until the dust settled, many of the assets her mother might have accrued remained frozen.

And of course, it was a chance for Veronica to exist in a world unclouded by the demons of her father. An idea that had been crushed her second day in Riverdale at the hands of her eternally perplexing amity to Betty Cooper.

Glancing down at the single pink carnation in her hands and the assortment of others before her, Veronica hesitated.

Mr. Lee had said words spoken could only be forgiven, never forgotten, and in his many visits to the Lodge Manor, Veronica could vividly recall Mr. Lee’s slouching form and shuffling feet as he taught Veronica flower by flower, lesson after lesson.

It seemed unfair. Veronica had never asked for any of this – for the collapsing of her parent’s marriage or the dozens of rumours that circulated about her father all slanders and discrediting in nature. She had never asked to have the very pillars she had stood so fruitfully upon to shake so precariously.

And yet, it was all Veronica had.

“I’m sorry, mother. You’re right. Moving forward, I’ll find a way.”

Veronica imagined the soft chuckle and head shaking in disbelief. She imagined the warm hand on her shoulder and the encouraging words ‘ _We must be patient Little One, even if every possibility seems closed.’_

There had to be a way.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floral Index:
> 
> Menyanthes trifoliata (Buckbean):  
>        Causing a calm or repose. 


	3. Chapter 3

Another way arrived in the form of an unlikely family acquaintance, passing through on a visit to a family estate half a dozen miles north.

Veronica had taken to the only florist shoppe – more dismal than any New York had to offer and that included the corner street stalls, flowers crammed into buckets next to the daily paper and  _I Love New York_ memorabilia. Since her mother’s words, Veronica knew not another flower would not cross the threshold of her mother’s home until Veronica could formulate an alternative means of funding. It was a choice, not a demand; Veronica had taken it with the utmost sincerity.

“Miss. Lodge, is that you?”

Drawing back from the wilted tulips, Veronica turned, eying the latest addition to the cramped store with the mildest of alarm. Though her father’s influence stretched far, few outside of Riverdale High could place the Lodge heiress by sight alone and it had created an anonymity Veronica had grown increasingly grateful for.  

“Yes? I apologize, I don’t recall-“

Years of posture and etiquette extended Veronica’s hand toward the strange man at half past noon on a Saturday across the cuts of formerly fresh flowers.

“Oh, I imagine not. You were so young at the time. Mr. Jenkins – I was formerly a partner to your father before he ventured onto bigger and better fish. All for the better, I suppose.”

Adverse to conversation focused around the man Veronica wanted nothing more than to cleave from her life, Veronica turned to her speciality.

“So, Mr. Jenkins, what brought you in today?”

As he wove the intricate tale Veronica nodded along, mentally carding through the language she knew well.

“You’ll want this.”

Handing him the colour and flower to best suit the occasion given the limited selection, Veronica bid farewell.

What she did not expect was a business card and proposition on her next visit to the run down shoppe.  

* * *

Mrs. Jenkins was an elderly woman. Her hair was the colour of snow and her skin appeared weathered and sallow under the dreadful lighting.  

After the death of her husband, much to the displeasure of her three adult children, Mrs. Jenkins had insisted on returning to the family estate. Houston had been a city of wonder, but now alone, the elderly woman yearned for the familiarities of the estate nestled in the expanses of the Riverdale country side. There was a comfort in the old creak of the wooden floors and the songs of the morning birds, she had said.

It was Mrs. Jenkins –  _Nana_ – who had loved Veronica’s flowers. And it was Nana who had insisted Veronica continue to select arrangements and bring them to her at the estate. In exchange for her efforts, Veronica was provided a generous stipend and granted free range of the Jenkin estate.

The estate itself was rough around the edges but held a uniqueness that reminded Veronica of New York and the home she doubted she would ever see again. The manor itself was passible, tended to by the single staff Mr. Jenkins had hired to care to his mother, but understandably run down. But perhaps what caught her attention most were the garden beds out back, over grown and closed off. However, the greenhouse was in optimal condition and with an appraising nod, Veronica recognized the potential it held.

Hard labour was not a set of words that had ever existed in her vernacular – tended to by maids, butlers and chauffeurs – but Lodge’s were adaptable. And so after cheer practice and school and all the necessary social engagements, Veronica rolled up her sleeves.

As she carried away old debris, replaced several damaged panels, and laid fresh soil - Nana offering guided pointers and suggestions every so often - Veronica felt oddly satisfied.

* * *

“I’m just worried about you. I know you’re young but honey, you’re hardly home and I just… I worry.”

Worry lines and frazzled hair were not a sight Veronica saw often. Her mother was always calm, composed and for the better part of her life, aloof.

Ever since leaving New York, Veronica had watched as her mother grew wearier than Veronica had ever remembered seeing her. It was as if weights sat on her mother’s shoulders and nothing Veronica seemed to do eased the weight.

Pushing around the pasta – a far cry from the gourmet restaurants that had graced their table almost nightly – Veronica felt sick.

“I-“ the words caught and Veronica sputtered to start again, “I found a job. Well sort of.”

There was a shimmering and a lightness in her mother’s weary gaze and Veronica realised the presumptions her mother must have had. In New York, they might have been valid and in fact had been, but not in Riverdale. Not when Veronica  _knew_  and the words of Mr. Lee rang loud and Nana continued to encourage her on.

“Oh honey, that’s wonderful!”

Loosening the hold on her fork, Veronica smiled, feeling the warmth in her mother’s words and the honesty in her intention.

“Would you… would you like to see one day?”

* * *

“Why do you stock so many species of crocuses?”

Veronica prodded at the wilting violet petals with her manicured nail. It was odd, her mother had remained in opposition to flowers and yet mani pedi spas had remained acceptable.

“Over the past two weeks you must have sold, what, one? Perhaps, two? And when they had sold, what condition were they in?”

It had been barely a month since Veronica had taken to spending time in the florists. After a disagreement on the manner of an arrangement during her third visit, Veronica had agreed to remain quiet in exchange for the ability to peruse at her leisure.

It was a painful agreeance nevertheless Veronica aimed to be a woman of her word; always a work in progress.

“I know we spoke of my silence and of merely my observation but this can’t be profitable.”

Ushering to the arrangement table, hands settling down with emphasis, Veronica commanded attention. It was rude, it was abrupt, and it was everything Mr. Lee had taught her not to be. But as she stared down the rigid form of the florist – Veronica had never quite caught her name – she only saw what was lacking, what could grow and  _why wasn’t this woman listening to her?_

“Veronica, this isn’t-“

Veronica wanted to argue – wanted to fight. Wasn’t what? Wasn’t right? Wilted crocuses weren’t right – captive in the black pails of the small confines of these four walls rather than on the tables of families or exchanged between friends and loved ones.

“Tell you what, let us make a wager. I will allow you to place the stock order for next week. If it sells more than what I normally select for this season, we’ll sit down and redesign the stock list. If it doesn’t, I’ll hear not another word about these beautiful flowers.”

Running the stipulations over in her mind, Veronica paused.

“I accept,” she said with glee, extending her hand in a binding shake.

“And you cannot simply purchase them all yourself or have Mrs. Jenkins swoop in, understand?”

“Please, Mrs. Jenkins finds far too much pleasure in watching me struggle. Something about character development and wasteful youth.”

* * *

Winning the wager had not been as simple as Veronica had initially presumed.

There had been an unexpected community celebration. The organizer loved tulips and the entire section of wilted tulips had gone. The crocuses were next. Not because it had been requested but rather a compromise.

The stock Veronica had ordered sat untouched.

It wasn’t until midweek when Veronica rolled the sleeves of her cashmere cardigan up – a notion she later regretted – and went to work. It wasn’t easy to draw the attention of patrons across Riverdale, most too absorbed in their own melodramas of life and penny pinching over the “frivolous” things in life.

Veronica was apt to believe the shiny new television set, upcoming vacations or other “frivolous” expenditures more than the excuses spouted. Call one thing frivolous, fine, but call the game even was Veronica’s moto. Excuses should be applied and filtered equally across all sections of life and yet so few were willing to do so, content to live in a frivolously fulfilling lie than tell Veronica the mere truth.

The sight of Betty with Archie, Jughead and Kevin in tow had been far more difficult to swallow than Veronica might have ever imagined. It wasn’t the sight of Betty, attached to the arm of Archie, or the way he offered to purchase Betty a floral arrangement that churned her stomach. That night when Veronica lie awake she swore it was the feeling of failure and desperation that had crept in; it was the feelings of little worth and an inability to achieve.

It had nothing to do with Betty or her proximity to Archie.

* * *

“I’m impressed.”

Drawing back from her admiration of the last stock of lavender, Veronica hummed her agreeance.

“I honestly thought I had lost – until this morning, I was so sure.”

Veronica had learned to disguise her vulnerability in the form of floriography. It was never what Mr. Lee had intended when he spoke of love and trust and acceptance but after his death and the disconnection from her father and his sullies, Veronica had found it difficult to do anything but hide. The walls she erected were for protection, Veronica told herself over and over again, ten feet tall and bullet proof.

“But you did it and a deal’s a deal.”

The extended stock sheet felt like an olive branch. Veronica smiled.

“Thank you Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“So you do know my name!”

As Veronica took mental inventory of the remaining florals, she failed to hear the movement of the other woman or notice her presence until it was all Veronica could see, blatant and kneeling in front of her hunched form.

“Hey, don’t give up okay? I’ve known Elizabeth Cooper since she was in diapers and that girl has never been as happy as when she’s with you.”

Ignoring the burning sensation in her eyes, Veronica willed the rising quell of hope down. Hope was a catalyst. But regardless of the outcome she desired, Veronica knew Betty deserved better. She deserved her happy ever after and Veronica would never represent that.


End file.
